By Mary Hunter Austin
THE first time of my hearing of her was at Temblor. Wehad come all one day between blunt， whitish cliffs risingfrom mirage water， with a thick， pale wake of dust billowingfrom the wheels， all the dead wall of the foothills sliding andshimmering with heat， to learn that the Walking Woman hadpassed us somewhere in the dizzying dimness， going downto the Tulares on her own feet. We heard of her again in theCarrisal， and again at Adobe Station， where she had passeda week before the shearing， and at last I had a glimpse of herat the Eighteen-Mile House as I went hurriedly northwardon the Mojave stage； and afterward sheepherders at whosecamps she slept， and cowboys at rodeos， told me as much ofher way of life as they could understand. Like enough theytold her as much of mine. That was very little. She was theWalking Woman， and no one knew her name， but becauseshe was a sort of whom men speak respectfully， they calledher to her face Mrs. Walker， and she answered to it if she wasso inclined. She came and went about our western world onno discoverable errand， and whether she had some place ofrefuge where she lay by in the interim， or whether between herseldom， unaccountable appearances in our quarter she wenton steadily walking， was never learned. She came and went，oftenest in a kind of muse of travel which the untrammeledspace begets， or at rare intervals flooding wondrously withtalk， never of herself， but of things she had known and seen.
She must have seen some rare happenings， too—by report. Shewas at Maverick the time of the Big Snow， and at Tres Pi？oswhen they brought home the body of Morena； and if anybodycould have told whether De Borba killed Mariana for spite ordefence， it would have been she， only she could not be foundwhen most wanted. She was at Tunawai at the time of thecloudburst， and if she had cared for it could have known mostdesirable things of the ways of trail-making， burrow-habitingsmall things.
All of which should have made her worth meeting， thoughit was not， in fact， for such things I was wishful to meet her；and as it turned out， it was not of these things we talked whenat last we came together. For one thing， she was a woman， notold， who had gone about alone in a country where the numberof women is as one in fifteen. She had eaten and slept at theherders’ camps， and laid by for days at one-man stations whosemasters had no other touch of human kind than the passingof chance prospectors， or the halting of the tri-weekly stage.
She had been set on her way by teamsters who lifted her outof white， hot desertness and put her down at the crossing ofunnamed ways， days distant from anywhere. And throughall this she passed unarmed and unoffended. I had the besttestimony to this， the witness of the men themselves. I thinkthey talked of it because they were so much surprised at it. Itwas not， on the whole， what they expected of themselves.
Well I understand that nature which wastes its borders withtoo eager burning， beyond which rim of desolation it flaresforever quick and white， and have had some inkling of theisolating calm of a desire too high to stoop to satisfaction. Butyou could not think of these things pertaining to the WalkingWoman； and if there were ever any truth in the exemptionfrom offense residing in a frame of behavior called ladylike， itshould have been inoperative here. What this really means isthat you get no affront so long as your behavior in the estimateof the particular audience invites none. In the estimate of theparticular audience—conduct which affords protection inMayfair gets you no consideration in Maverick. And by nocanon could it be considered ladylike to go about on your ownfeet， with a blanket and a black bag and almost no money inyour purse， in and about the haunts of rude and solitary men.
There were other things that pointed the wish for a personalencounter with the Walking Woman. One of them was thecontradiction of reports of her—as to whether she was comely，for example. Report said yes， and again， plain to the point ofdeformity. She had a twist to her face， some said； a hitch toone shoulder； they averred she limped as she walked. But bythe distance she covered she should have been straight andyoung. As to sanity， equal incertitude. On the mere evidenceof her way of life she was cracked； not quite broken， butunserviceable. Yet in her talk there was both wisdom andinformation， and the word she brought about trails and waterholeswas as reliable as an Indian’s.
By her own account she had begun by walking off an illness.
There had been an invalid to be taken care of for years， leavingher at last broken in body， and with no recourse but her ownfeet to carry her out of that predicament. It seemed there hadbeen， besides the death of her invalid， some other worryingaffairs， upon which， and the nature of her illness， she was neverquite clear， so that it might well have been an unsoundness ofmind which drove her to the open， sobered and healed at lastby the large soundness of nature. It must have been about thattime that she lost her name. I am convinced that she never toldit because she did not know it herself. She was the WalkingWoman， and the country people called her Mrs. Walker. At thetime I knew her， though she wore short hair and a man’s boots，and had a fine down over all her face from exposure to theweather， she was perfectly sweet and sane.
I had met her occasionally at ranch-houses and road-stations，and had got as much acquaintance as the place allowed； but forthe things I wished to know there wanted a time of leisure andisolation. And when the occasion came we talked altogether ofother things.
